


Tiny Wooden Puppet Hands

by LegendaryBard



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Accidental Boners, M/M, dick stepping, handjobs, really demeaning dirty talk on Scarface’s part :/, uhh S&M I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 22:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Arnold and Scarface make a daring escape; but once they make it to the safehouse, well...





	Tiny Wooden Puppet Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to point out now that despite the extreme subject material, this isn’t noncon or dubcon; Wesker is consenting the whole time.

Arnold Wesker- better known as the Ventriloquist- threw the bolt on the door and flattened his back against it.

The two of them (Scarface was also there, but that went without saying) had just escaped- very narrowly- from the Batman; Arnold had booked it instead of taking chances, and for once, Scarface agreed with his plan of  _ not  _ getting thrown in Arkham. 

Arnold panted, sweating like a pig in August, and trembled against the door, straining to hear any approaching sounds from the outside. 

“We’re safe,” Scarface declared, in a mutter. “Back up, dummy.” 

Arnold moved slowly, as if he had been the only thing holding the door up; he turned back, to face the door, still quivering. His lower lip was shaking, out-of-control. 

It was rare these days that the two of them weren’t surrounded by big, tough men who had longer criminal records than a mother of seven’s grocery list, and so being alone with Scarface while Batman was hunting for them was nerve-wracking! (Though not because of Scarface, he’d grown used to the puppet’s fiery temper and verbal abuse; rather, he didn’t want to be punched again!) 

“We’re SAFE,” Scarface repeated, angrily. “Quit shakin’ me around with all your gibberin’! What the hell do ya think a  _ safe house  _ is, ya numbskull?”

“Sorry, sir,” Wesker stammered. “You’re right, sir.” 

“Youse god damn right I’m right,” Scarface muttered. “Put your ass in a chair, dummy.” 

The safehouse was small, and lit only with a bare bulb suspended from the ceiling; there was a small store of food supplies stacked in a corner, a barely used sofa, medical supplies, and plenty of guns and ammunition neatly laid out and ready for use. 

Wesker collapsed on the sofa, and with extreme tenderness, removed Scarface from his arm to sit beside him; once seated, Arnold carefully arranged his limbs into a comfortable position. ( Mister Scarface was always more subdued when apart from Wesker, so he didn’t complain about fussiness like he might have. )

There was water in the food storage. Wesker blew out a breath and ventured up to get a bottle, hoping it would help him relax from the abrupt flight.

When he turned back with a bottle of water clutched in his hand, Scarface made a sharp noise of disgust. 

“What?” Wesker quickly turned his head around to the door, afraid Batman was invading.

“Look  _ down _ , dummy,” Scarface said, contemptuously. 

Wesker, trepidation sheening on his face like sweat, looked down.

His pants were tenting. Noticeably.

The reaction was immediate; Wesker’s ears burnt, and his mouth gaped like a landed fish. 

“No, it’s not like that!” Wesker exclaimed, just before Scarface let out a sharp guffaw. 

“I didn’t know you were packin’, dummy—”

“No!” Wesker blurted. 

“Didn’t realize Batman excited you like that—”

“Sir,  _ no!”  _

“Can’t believe I let you carry me around, you disgusting—”

“No!” Wesker wailed. “Sir,  _ please!  _ I’m not excited like that!”

Scarface’s completely blank eyes stared at him accusingly. 

“Uh-huh. Your stiffy’s just decided to introduce himself t’me out of the blue?”

Wesker’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson, mortified; he covered his groin with one hand, and turned around. 

“What the FUCK are you doin’, dummy?” Scarface roared. Wesker gulped, wishing the ground would swallow him up. “Jesus Christ. Fifty goddamn years old and youse poppin’ boners like a teen who just found his Pop’s fuckin’ porno mags.” 

Wesker spluttered a defense, but it got caught on his tongue. 

“Well,  _ turn around,”  _ Scarface barked.

“S-sir, this doesn’t have to be a, a whole production,” Wesker whined, writhing in his own skin. He was  _ aware  _ of his erection now, in a way he hadn’t been before; the cotton of his clothes felt uncomfortably dry and confining. “It’ll go away—”

There was brief silence. Then, the puppet’s slow drawl cut through Wesker’s embarrassed heat, like a blast of arctic snow: 

_ “Y’see,”  _ Scarface said, slowly, “I don’t think we’re gonna do that, are we, dummy?”

Wesker’s mouth went dry; every shred of moisture sizzled away. His heartbeat and erection throbbed in tandem.

He  _ was  _ too old for this- Scarface was right. Fifty-one this year- the adrenaline from fleeing the Batman had confused his old body, and now he was flustered and hard and it sounded like Scarface wanted to-

“Sir, I, I don’t know about this—” Wesker wheedled. 

“Come over to this goddamn couch, dummy.” 

Wesker swallowed. He turned back around, dizzy and throbbing, and sat on the couch beside Scarface. He picked up the puppet, carefully resting him on Wesker’s arm. 

“Filthy old man,” Scarface hissed, and Wesker thought, in his disgusted snarl, there may have been a trace of genuine affection. “Can’t believe I gotta take care of you because you don’t know how ta’ make your dick behave.”

“I, I’d be lost without you, Mister Scarface,” Wesker winced. “But, but, what if Batman—”

“You’ll fuckin’ shoot him, dummy, what’cha  _ think?”  _ Scarface told him, incredulously. There  _ was  _ a handgun, loaded, on the arm of the sofa. Wesker tried to imagine himself picking it up and shooting Batman during— during…

“S-sorry for asking, Mr. Scarface,” Wesker said, miserably. 

“Yeah, you should be. Learn how to shut up every once in a while, wouldja?” Scarface growled. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with, dummy.”

Trembling and red, Wesker tugged at the hem of his pants; a wooden hand was immediately shoved down them, making the poor Ventriloquist yelp.

“Sir-!”

“Quit whining,” Scarface barked in reply. Wesker realized he had been unknowingly holding his breath, and tried to relax and cycle his breathing properly—

Scarface was not very deft with his little, slightly malformed hands; Wesker shifted in discomfort at the clumsy clawing at his sensitive nethers, and could only vocalize a small sound of complaint before Scarface yelled at him.

“Shadd _ up,  _ dummy!” 

“Yes sir,” Wesker whined. “I could get that for you—”

Scarface’s glare was cold, and Wesker shriveled. It was a miracle of miracles he could still keep an erection through all of this— a thought that he tried to not probe too deep into as to  _ why.  _

“Ya know what? You give it a fuckin’ shot, then,” Scarface snarked. “Let’s see how you measure up, knucklehead.” 

Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Wesker undid his fly and very carefully slipped down his underwear—

“Shit.”

Wesker was well-endowed, to put it tastefully; he knew this. Not that he had been told that much- his line of work, both before and after Scarface, was devoid of anyone who’d want him to drop his pants… with maybe the exception of doctors-

“I was expectin’ a pistol from you, dummy,” was it Wesker’s mind playing tricks on him, or was there a rosy glow of  _ pleasure  _ in Scarface’s tone? The Ventriloquist tried not to shiver, tried not to let the flush of his face deepen. “But I got a whole rifle.”

“I- I’m glad I’m not disappointing you, s-Sir—”

“Oh, I’m disappointed,” Scarface’s tiny foot came down on Wesker’s member, and the man squealed in partial pain, partial surprise. “In  _ you,  _ not in your dick.” 

“Sir, that hurts!” Wesker shrilled. 

“Yeah? Well, I think you  _ like  _ it when it hurts, dummy,” Scarface got up in his face, glowering. “Just thinkin’ about Batman beatin’ the snot outta you got you all  _ hard  _ already.” 

“I told you!” Wesker cried, defensively, “It wasn’t like that! I, I just— adrenaline—”

“Keep tellin’ yousself that,” Scarface said, dismissively. “I’m gonna take care’a you, an’ you’re gonna love it, you lecherous old bastard. Jus’ try not to pass out or scream loud enough to bring that whackjob in his crappy Halloween costume.” 

Wesker was feeling very faint; hot and dizzy, unsure of what to do or say. He didn’t want to  _ stop  _ Scarface, he really didn’t. He liked this, even if it felt sort of— wrong, and guilty… 

Wires in his brain must’ve crossed when he was born. Made him a glutton for punishment. Made him like withstanding Scarface’s berating and flailing and abuse—

“Spl-splinters, Mr. Scarface, please be careful—” Wesker said, weakly.

“You polish my damn hands like they’re your Ma’s best silverware, dummy, you ain’t gettin’ no splinters,” Scarface shot him down. “You just concentrate on lookin’ pretty.” 

Tiny hands wrapped around Wesker’s shaft; he made a sharp inhalation, sitting up straighter. They were smooth, polished, and  _ cold,  _ but they were warming up pretty fast. 

He knew it was inviting more yelling, but Wesker panted, “L—lubricant, Mr. Scarface—”

“So goddamn needy!” Scarface whipped around. “You see any fuckin’ Vaseline around here, dummy!? You’re just gonna have to deal with it!” 

“B-but-”

Scarface slapped his cock; it bounced, amusingly, and Wesker let out a thin, reedy cry, temporarily and futilely writhing to escape. 

“Back-talk me again an’ I’ll crush your balls until you’re singin’ like Bill Kenny!” Scarface roared. “Do you want me to fix your dick or  _ not,  _ dummy!?” 

“Yes sir!” Wesker cried.

“Then shut  **_UP!”_ ** Scarface yelled. 

Wesker, shivering, eyes half-way closed, let Scarface get to it. It was not particularly comfortable; the slide of wood on such sensitive skin, over and over again, began to almost  _ hurt,  _ though there were brief moments of electric pleasure when Scarface begrudgingly rubbed against the head of Wesker’s cock. 

The actual stimulation was not the most attention-grabbing part, though; Scarface’s snarling, demeaning voice was growling at him, getting jumbled in Wesker’s rapidly manifesting whimpers and moans. He said… he said lots of  _ things  _ that Wesker would not like to hear repeated. 

“You  _ like  _ that, you gross old man? What’re you thinking about? Imagining sticking your cock in your fuckin’ boss? In  _ me?  _ You  **_wish.”_ **

Wesker has tried to choke out denial as Scarface purposely ground his tiny wooden hand against Wesker’s glans. 

“Maybe you’re thinkin’ about gettin’ banged by Batman, huh? Imagining me  _ watching  _ the two of you? Who’da guessed an fat, ugly old bastard like you would be so  _ kinky?”  _

Wesker’s balls were tightening; there was a  _ tension _ building in his whole body. He was sweating, sweating,  _ sweating.  _ His skin was sticking to his clothes and he was so  _ hot,  _ like he was melting from the inside out—

“You  _ like  _ this!” Scarface accused; he stopped for a second, and Wesker wanted to start crying. He writhed, bucked, seeking contact, but Scarface moved away. “You  _ like  _ me calling you names! You’re a fucking piece of work, dummy!”

“M-M-Mister Scarface,” Wesker whimpered, uselessly canting his hips upward. His cock was red, hard,  _ throbbing,  _ seeking contact, any contact; he reached out with his other hand to finish himself off, but Scarface ruthlessly slapped it down. 

“Yeah?  _ Yeah? _ What could  _ you  _ possibly want, dummy?” Scarface sneered at him. 

“I want to get off, Mister Scarface,” Wesker whined, in a small, breathless voice. “Please, Mister Scarface.” 

“I don’t know. Maybe givin’ you blue balls will get through to you, ‘cos slappin’ you around is only makin’ your dick bigger, and yellin’ at you ain’t doin’ shit, either. Maybe I’ll just let youse suffer.” 

“No!” Wesker cried. “Please, Mr. Scarface, please! I’ll do whatever you want!” 

Scarface would’ve smiled; Wesker could hear it in his voice. 

“Aw, but dummy…  _ you’d do that anyway.”  _

Scarface’s touch mercifully returned; Wesker let out a sob-moan of relief, his toes starting to curl. Scarface was attending to him swiftly now; pointedly stimulating the tip, rough and not regarding. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wesker worried about blistering or just how sensitive his raw skin was going to be— 

Wesker cried out. He was close. He was so, so close, sososososo—

“You wanna cum, dummy?” Scarface taunted, pulling his touch away  _ again _ . “I think you gotta ask for permission, first. That’s what all my dames say, anyway.” 

The pressure was almost  _ agonizing  _ now— burning in a fiery, urgent way. His head was spinning- his lungs were hardly circulating his breath. He could barely concentrate on anything other than Scarface and the fact that he was at the zenith of orgasm— in the last couple seconds before sweet release—

“Mister Scarface, please let me cum!” Wesker wailed, shamelessly.

“S’pose that could be arranged,” Scarface said, musingly. “Alright, dummy. You got my permission.”

Without so much as a touch, Wesker shouted, bucked sharply upward, and was swept up in the throes of orgasm.

The moments of blissful blankness- of pleasure- fell away fast. Wesker found himself collapsed partially on the arm of the couch, panting like he’d just run a marathon and drenched in sweat. Scarface was perched, satisfied, on his thigh, watching Wesker’s cock soften. 

“You’re the most pathetic thing to ever walk the earth,” Scarface told him. “I shoulda said no. Just let’cha  _ suffer.”  _

“Th-thank you, Mister Scarface,” Wesker choked. Tiredness was coming on him fast; descending, heavy and warm, like a weighted blanket. “Thank you for helping me.”

There was a pause. 

“Whatever, dummy. Just be glad this damn place is soundproof.” 

  
  



End file.
